


Like We Always Do

by giddytf2



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Post-Episode 6, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soulmate's Last Words On Body AU, you might cry reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29999094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: He stared at the grimy wall in front of him. He stared, and saw only the brilliant, bloody red of Jaskier's doublet. The glistening red of Jaskier's eyes. The dull, dried red of Jaskier's scratched palms.He'd turned away before Jaskier could do the same.He'd turned away so he wouldn't have to watch Jaskier leave him.Now, those words were all he had left of Jaskier. Jaskier, who'd sung songs about him when no one else would, who'd transformed him from brutal butcher to noble wolf. Jaskier, who'd given him twenty years of his human life to walk by his side.Jaskier, who—wasn't here anymore.________________________Months after the mountain, Geralt learns that he has a soulmate after all--and that his soulmate's last words to him are inscribed on his back: "See you around, Geralt."(Originally a twitfic at@giddytf2, edited and formatted.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 180





	Like We Always Do

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists because I saw a prompt on Twitter that went something like "soulmate's last words on your body AU"--and I instantly thought of Jaskier's last words to Geralt in season one. 😭
> 
> I will warn, there is death in this story, and it's the reason why I ticked the "choose not to use archive warnings" tag. _But_ to me, what happens in this story is death and yet not death at all. I know that's so vague, but that's the most I can say here in the beginning notes without ruining the reading experience for you. The "happy ending" tag is absolutely true. ❤️
> 
> However, if you do wish to know exactly what happens in the story, you can read the details in the end notes. (It'll definitely spoil the story for you though, particularly the last section of it.)
> 
> This track is for the first third of the story or so, until after Geralt finds Jaskier again: [Haunting of Hill House OST - Go Tomorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT3ft8ncwWI&t=1s)  
> The instrumental part of this song is for the rest of the story, about 4 minutes 4 seconds in: [If I Go, I'm Goin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNgxWKezvDw&t=244s)

Once upon a time, before he knew what pain was, before he was abandoned at the foot of Kaer Morhen, before he saw and felt his own blood gushing out his screaming mouth, Geralt's favorite color was red. It was the color of his favorite shirt. It was the color of his food bowl. It was the color of the insides of his mother's mouth while she laughed.

Then it became the color of his fingers while he scrabbled across coarse gravel on his bound limbs, wailing for his mother to come back, to take him home where it was safe and warm and he didn't hurt. It became the color of his split lips when the other boys struck him with wooden swords. The color of his gaping mouth and pallid face and writhing body while alchemical ingredients coursed through his veins and killed the boy he was, day by day, until he wasn't a boy anymore.

It became the color he hated most—although not because of any of those things lurking in his cold, distant past. The colors of the past were muted: red most of all, smothered to black that drowned in the darkness.

But even after months, Jaskier's outfit remained a brilliant red.

Even after months since the hunt on that accursed mountain, since that salty scent had welled and wafted down to him from Jaskier's large eyes—Jaskier's outfit remained a brilliant, bloody red in his memories.

_See you around, Geralt._

Jaskier's last words to him were red too.

He knew this at last, after a century of crawling the earth like the mutant worm he was, for Lambert was scrutinizing those very words on his lacerated back. Words he'd never known were there.

"Hell of a spot to have your soulmate's last words inscribed," Lambert said, scoffing.

He didn't feel Lambert's fingertip drawing a tiny circle on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. He didn't feel the needle weaving in and out of his cold flesh while Lambert resumed patching up his wounds in silence.

He stared at the grimy wall in front of him. He stared, and saw only the brilliant, bloody red of Jaskier's doublet. The glistening red of Jaskier's eyes. The dull, dried red of Jaskier's scratched palms.

He'd turned away before Jaskier could do the same.

He'd turned away so he wouldn't have to watch Jaskier leave him.

Now, those words were all he had left of Jaskier. Jaskier, who'd sung songs about him when no one else would, who'd transformed him from brutal butcher to noble wolf. Jaskier, who'd given him twenty years of his human life to walk by his side.

Jaskier, who—wasn't here anymore.

Jaskier had said those words to him on the mountain, and now Jaskier wasn't here anymore. Everyone had their soulmate's last words inscribed somewhere on their body, but he'd never believed he had one, for who would love someone like _him?_

But—Jaskier had said those words.

Jaskier had said those words to him. Jaskier wasn't here anymore. Those words were his soulmate's last words upon his back, and Jaskier had said those words to him but Jaskier wasn't _here_ anymore because those were his last words, because _he was dead_ —

"Fucking hell, Geralt!"

He was on his feet. Treading the floor from one side of the small inn room to the other. His hands were trembling fists at his sides and his shoulders were taut ranges of rock and he was shaking, and shaking, and—an animal was in the room with them, he could hear it snarling—

"The needle's still stuck in your back, for gods' sakes—"

His head whipped around and he stared wide-eyed at Lambert. The animalistic snarling grew louder and louder, and his nails dug into his palms, and he could feel his lips peeling back, baring his fangs, and he—he was—

He was the one snarling.

Lambert was still sitting on the wooden stool by the bed. The stool Geralt had sat on had fallen on its side on the floor.

"Geralt," Lambert said calmly, gazing back at him.

Lambert had raised both hands, their palms out. They were smeared with blood.

They were smeared with _his_ blood, not Jaskier's. They were—

Geralt blinked. He blinked again, and the snarling stopped, and in the ensuing, crushing hush, he shook and shook in the cold, and Jaskier's very last words to him incinerated him to the marrow of his ancient bones.

Slowly, Lambert lowered his blood-smeared hands. Lambert's familiar features softened by the slightest fraction as he stared at Geralt.

"You didn't know."

Geralt had no words to reply to Lambert's murmured ones. He wasn't the one with words. He wasn't their master: Jaskier was. Jaskier would know what to say. Jaskier would know what to—do.

Jaskier wasn't here anymore.

Where did Jaskier go?

Where did Jaskier go, after leaving him?

"Your soulmate." Lambert's face had softened another fraction, like Geralt had never seen before. "You know who it is."

Geralt couldn't feel the wooden floor beneath his frozen feet. He couldn't stop shivering despite the flames blazing in the fireplace nearby. He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't hugging himself. He was just—so cold.

His cracked lips parted.

"I—have to find him. I have to find Jaskier."

He didn't recognize the voice that spoke, although it seemed familiar, as if it wafted from a cold, distant place that he had once known. It sounded like a little boy's voice. It sounded like his voice, before he knew what pain was.

Lambert stared on at him with that unforeseen, gentle face. Lambert had a lucrative job awaiting him tomorrow in a neighboring city, one he'd been bragging about throughout their hunt today.

Lambert wasn't obligated to help him.

"Okay, Geralt," Lambert said, nodding. "Okay."

Geralt stared back and didn't know what to say to that either. He still felt so cold, and numb. He wasn't shivering so much anymore.

"Let's get that needle out of your back and fix you first, all right?"

Lambert righted the fallen stool, then gestured to him to sit on it again. He stared at it for a long moment. After a faltering step, he tottered to it and sat down heavily, his hunched back facing Lambert.

He didn't feel the needle weaving in and out of his icy flesh. He didn't hear what Lambert was saying to him, or taste the wet salt on his lips.

Where did Jaskier go?

Where did Jaskier go, after he pushed away the soulmate he never knew he had?

He didn't know. He was so cold, and numb, and devoid of words.

He stared at the grimy wall, and saw only brilliant, bloody red that tasted of iron and butchery.

It didn't take long for Geralt and Lambert to hunt down the fuckers who had any inkling of Jaskier's whereabouts and condition, once they hit the open road and dove into the intricate gossip network that snaked through the Continent. Jaskier was no ordinary, random bard. His songs about Geralt alone had assured his place in bardic history, and his performance at Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast in Cintra had assured his mighty reputation would abide. Even if people didn't recognize him by face, his ostentatious outfits always turned heads.

People tended to remember the big-mouthed, renowned bard in brilliant, blood-red attire—especially if he wasn't accompanied by the White Wolf, who might have stopped the vicious gang of robbers from kidnapping and enslaving him months ago.

"How much you willing to pay me, eh?"

The greasy, sneering man that stood in front of Geralt and Lambert stank of lard and meat left out in the sun. The narrow alley seemed to trap the stench around them like a fog. It seeped into Geralt's nostrils, onto his tongue.

He wanted to grab this fucker's head and smash it. Slam it against the wall, over and over, until they were told where Jaskier was.

"I'm not telling you witcher _scum_ a word until you give me—"

Geralt's gloved hand whipped out and seized the conniving fucker's neck. With a resonant snarl, he lifted the choking man off his feet. Slammed him against the alley wall, and tightened his hand until the fucker was gasping for air, eyes popping out, flailing like a skewered pig. His booted feet kicked the air inches above the filthy ground.

" _Talk_ ," Geralt growled through his bared teeth, eyes stark with rage.

Lambert tsked, then said nonchalantly, "Excellent strangulation technique there, Geralt. But you _might_ want to ease up a little if he's to talk, hm?"

Geralt let out another resonant snarl—then loosened his crushing grip just enough for the pathetic rat to suck in a breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lambert wrinkle his nose in an outwardly skeptical expression.

"Hm, perhaps a _little_ more of the easing up?"

Geralt rolled his eyes. He abruptly let go of the terrified man's neck. Stepped back as the man collapsed onto the ground, wheezing.

"If you run," he growled, glaring down at the man who now cowered against the wall, "I'll chop off your legs. Then your hands, your arms, if you don't fucking tell me _right now_ where the bard is."

He meant it. He didn't give a damn if it meant soaking his image in blood again. He didn't care what happened to him, as long as he got Jaskier back. As long as his soulmate was safe again.

"I'm—not a-asking," the man wheezed, "for—much—"

Geralt grabbed the hilt of his sheathed sword strapped to his back and began withdrawing it, his teeth bared again. Lambert grabbed his arm at the same time the sniveling fucker on the ground flung his arms up to shield himself and screamed, "Okay, I'll talk! I'LL TALK! _DON'T KILL ME!_ "

Geralt glowered at Lambert who gazed back at him with a placid expression, and refused to let go of his arm. He huffed with frustration. Released the hilt of his sword. Flexed his arm after Lambert set it free.

Lambert gave the cowering man a mirthless smile, and said, "The bard."

The man sniffled, then muttered, "Koziol and his men, fifty-strong, they got a campsite in the woods."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. Fifty men, all of them likely armed, against two experienced witchers—and they had Jaskier as a hostage.

"The stinking bastards! Never gave me what they owe me!" The man sniffled again. "I can—I can draw you a map where—"

"The bard," Geralt snarled.

The man rubbed his nose, then whined, "They've got him, okay?! I swear! They tried to sell him, but he put up a bloody fight so Koziol chains him up. Keeps him like some singing pet."

Geralt was torn between strangling the sniffling fucker again and puffing his chest with pride.

They hadn't broken Jaskier. They hadn't extinguished his brilliant soulmate's fire.

Somehow, despite Jaskier having already said those last words to him on the mountain—Jaskier was still alive. Jaskier was still fighting.

He still had a chance.

To apologize. To make amends. To fix the precious thing he'd broken on the mountain, even if he couldn't and might never fix himself.

"H-hey, if you two actually kill them all—you don't mind bringing back some money for me. Do you?"

Geralt enjoyed every second of strangulating the whingeing fucker again.

The robbers' campsite was precisely where the crudely drawn map pinpointed it in the woods miles beyond the city's borders. Geralt and Lambert had left their loyal horses behind to covertly reconnoiter the area surrounding the campsite—and in hindsight, Geralt was glad for that.

_Geralt, we hunt monsters._

Lambert had said that so very calmly to him before they'd slinked deeper into the woods, towards their potential killers-to-be. Witchers were stronger than humans, and lived much longer than them.

But witchers could bleed.

Witchers could still die.

 _They're not men_ , he'd growled in reply, and he hadn't known whether he'd been referring to Koziol and his gang—or to himself and every other witcher.

Witchers could bleed. _He_ could bleed, and so could Lambert, and the two of them could make dozens of barbarous vermin bleed.

Blood was red in the sunlight but black in the moonlight.

Yet, as Geralt witnessed a goat-faced, hulking man ram a fist into a bearded but achingly familiar face—upon pale, bruised skin, Jaskier's blood was brilliant red.

Jaskier's flamboyant outfit was gone, replaced by rags. All that was left of it were those red breeches, ripped away from mid-thighs down. Without the doublet and shirt, Jaskier's hairy torso was exposed to the elements and to the leering eyes of his captors.

Geralt could see the bleak contours of Jaskier's ribcage and collarbones. He could see the withering away of healthy brawn to skin and bones from Jaskier's scrawny arms and legs. See the wide manacles around bony wrists and ankles, attached to a thick chain that looped around a tree trunk.

The goat-faced fucker was holding Jaskier down by the neck. Strangling him. Grinning down at him while he clawed at the ruthless arm pinning him to the ground.

"You calling out for him again?"

The goat-faced fucker had to be Koziol, speaking to Jaskier with that revolting, hissing voice.

"You think he'll hear you this time, bard?"

Geralt was frozen in place behind the dense bushes he and Lambert were kneeling, waiting, watching. Lambert was gripping his upper arm, fingers digging into his flesh. He was frozen but he was also shaking, and his enhanced senses cursed him with hearing Jaskier's choked cries.

He heard Koziol's snigger as clearly, as a high-pitched hum began to drown every noise other than the fucker's taunts.

"Go on, keep calling for him to save you. But he'll never come. It's a _blessing_ he'll never see you again. Isn't that right?"

Jaskier was still fighting.

Jaskier was still fighting so hard, clawing and kicking with all he had left, and Geralt could hear those choked cries trying so hard to form a word, a _name_ —

"The White Wolf will never come for you. I'll cut those words off your arm, and then you're _mine_."

The hum loudened. Geralt shook, and shook, and his eyes widened, and the chill oozed from his bones and he could hear a savage beast snarling louder than the hum, louder than Lambert's urgent voice—

Koziol's meaty hand tightened around Jaskier's neck.

And Geralt heard something fragile splinter.

Perhaps it was something inside Jaskier's neck. Perhaps it was something inside Geralt's heaving chest, something that had lurked in the cold darkness, and grown and grown until it was a gargantuan, red monster that had his monstrous amber eyes and his monstrous gravelly voice.

All he saw was Jaskier's legs going still, and Jaskier's arms going limp and falling to the ground.

All he saw was brilliant, bloody red.

He remembered why it'd been his favorite color, as he roared and rushed into the campsite, his sword swinging and slicing into mortal flesh. His blade carved through a veiny neck then through a stout torso. Two corpses fell in a shower of red, and he leapt over them, hacking a screaming animal in two, its dismembered arms and sword flying through the air. He swung his sword, and more heads were shorn off their necks.

His enemies moved like pitiful snails. He was a red, roaring storm, slashing an unerring path through them to the goat-faced fucker who'd hauled Jaskier off the ground and against his body as a shield.

"I'll kill him! I'LL KILL HIM IF YOU COME CLOSER!"

All Geralt saw was red.

All Geralt saw was the fluttering of Jaskier's long lashes. The pale, shaking hand that tried to reach up to pull away the meaty one clamped around a long, bruised neck.

Jaskier was still alive.

Jaskier was still _fighting_.

"Stay back! Stay the fuck back, you fucking _MONSTER!_ "

All Geralt saw was brilliant, beautiful red as he charged forward and plunged his sword through the goat-faced animal's head between eyes forever round in shock. The blade burst out the back of the fucker's skull.

The meaty hand loosened.

Freed, Jaskier collapsed to the ground.

With a sonorous snarl, Geralt pulled out his sword. Kicked hard at the dead fucker's chest. The corpse hurtled far away from Jaskier, tumbling across the ground to lie sprawled in a spreading pool of blood and gore, joining its butchered brethren littered throughout the campsite.

Geralt couldn't hear the high-pitched hum anymore. He could scarcely hear the panicked screaming of the remaining few pathetic creatures sprinting away into the dark woods. He panted. Stood in place. Smelled hot iron in his nostrils and on his tongue. Felt it coating his body. Felt it splashed across his face, his hair. Felt it soak into his black armor, his clothes.

It soaked his vision too, but with each blink, with each fresh well of stinging salt in his eyes—he saw other colors again. He saw Jaskier's long, dark hair matted with dirt and oil. He saw Jaskier's contused, scruffy face, and he saw Jaskier's pale, split lip and Jaskier's brilliant blood splattered across a bony cheek.

But he didn't see Jaskier's big blue eyes. They were shut, weighted down by dark bags of exhaustion. Those long lashes stayed very still.

"It's just like you, Geralt, to hog all the glory."

Geralt stared on at Jaskier curled up on the ground. Lambert came into view when he knelt next to Jaskier, and beautiful red also spattered his armor.

"Fuck," Lambert whispered, staring down at Jaskier's blackening neck.

Geralt also stared at the mass of bruises, fresh and old, marring Jaskier's precious neck. He stared, and he couldn't speak, and his breaths quivered in and out of his lungs until Lambert gazed up at him with amber eyes just like his.

"Geralt, listen," Lambert said. " _Listen_."

Geralt blinked hard, and something wet seared trails down his cheeks. He blinked again. He stared down at Jaskier's face once more. He listened—and gradually, like the approaching, soothing waves of the sea, he heard a familiar, steady sound he'd thought he never would again. A precious sound he'd memorized decades ago.

"Yeah," Lambert said, lips quirked, eyes crinkled. "He's alive."

Geralt couldn't speak. Perhaps the fresh searing trails down his cheeks already did so, while he stood and no longer shook, and listened to Jaskier's heart beating on.

The bathwater was red. Geralt stared down at it, and if he looked hard enough, he would see his heavy-lidded, sore eyes staring back at him. They were more red than amber now.

The bathwater was very red and cold.

He'd been sitting in it for a long time, but he wasn't clean.

The red was going to stick to him, to his insides for an even longer time. He wasn't sure if he could ever scrub it off.

Jaskier used to bathe him. To wash his long hair to a pristine white with soaps and warm water, and patiently rub away all the filth and gore with a cloth. Jaskier would be prattling about something or another. Wagging a forefinger at him now and then to make a point. Pouring hot water over his head. Pouring more hot water from a kettle into the tub without him asking, and gently drying his hair then combing it into a lustrous wave.

Jaskier was a man of words—but it was only now, while he sat in the diluted blood of murdered men, that Geralt understood Jaskier was a man who spoke exquisitely through his actions too. Every careful rake through his hair had said what Jaskier had been unable to say with words. Every considerate scrub of his soiled body had said what Jaskier had wished could be said between them. Every other word Jaskier had uttered to him before were just foaming waves above the fathomless depths of Jaskier's feelings for him all these decades, hiding them from him.

Jaskier had loved him for a very long time.

Jaskier, his soulmate, had loved him.

But who was he to exult in that love, after what he'd done tonight?

He'd murdered dozens of men in a berserker rage. He—he'd thought he heard Jaskier _die_ , that Jaskier's neck had been broken.

But Jaskier wasn't dead.

Jaskier was alive, being treated in the next room by a healer Lambert had found and brought to the inn. Jaskier was _alive_. Jaskier was his _soulmate_.

He could hear that steady, precious heartbeat through the wall separating them. He could hear it.

It had to be enough now.

He couldn't ask for more than that.

He didn't deserve more, not after tonight. Not after his cruelty, his selfishness on the mountain, when he'd pushed away the one person who'd seen him at his best and at his worst countless times—and still chose him.

The bathwater was very red and very cold. His eyes were very red and very hot.

He didn't blink them dry. Didn't raise his head when the door opened then shut, when Lambert sauntered to the tub then knelt at its side, propping brawny forearms on its wooden rim.

Lambert was clean.

Lambert was staring at him, impaling him with a mere look.

"You're a fucking idiot," Lambert casually said. "A brooding, juvenile, selfish idiot."

Geralt stared down at his own reflection in silent agreement. Lambert stared at him for a few more seconds, then let out a loud huff.

"This is the part where you glare at me and tell me to fuck off, Geralt." When Geralt stayed silent, he said, "Or, you stop being a brooding, juvenile, selfish idiot for once, finish your bath, and get the fuck out of my room and go back to yours."

Geralt's throat jounced hard.

Lambert had paid for only two rooms. Jaskier was in the other room.

"He's going to be all right." If Geralt hadn't known Lambert for so many decades, he would never have noticed the slight gentling of his voice. "He'll fully recover. But his vocal cords are in pretty bad shape."

Geralt gritted his teeth. A muscle jumped in his lower jaw.

"It'll be a while before he can speak." Lambert paused—and Geralt was prepared for the callous jab that followed. "You must be ecstatic about _that_ , hm? No more annoying blathering from the annoying little shit."

Slowly, with a creak in his aching neck, Geralt raised his head to glower at Lambert. Lambert stared back with a victorious twinkle in his eyes and a tiny smirk.

"Yeah." Lambert's smirk expanded into something that hurt to look at, that Geralt didn't deserve to have either. "There you are. Wouldn't do to see your soulmate while looking like a kicked puppy, would it? You're a wolf. A witcher. And the bard sure as hell hasn't forgotten that."

Geralt's dry, cracked lips parted, but he was still devoid of words. He was still a savage beast inside.

"He's conscious, Geralt."

He was still a savage beast inside—but even a savage beast could bleed, and hurt, and yearn for rest. For a home. For love.

"He wants to see you."

He pressed his lips tight. He stared back at Lambert, his eyes clear and dry. He drew his knees up high. He didn't want to be tainted or cold anymore. He was tired. He longed for a soft, safe place to rest his head, for the warmth of sunshine.

"Okay," he rasped. "Okay, I'll go."

It didn't feel like defeat to say that. It felt like triumph. Like the beginning of something infinite.

He couldn't say where Lambert had gotten the navy blue linen shirt and black trousers for him, or how he ended up standing in the open doorway of Jaskier's room. He was there, now—and Jaskier was sitting on the side of a large bed, engulfed in a white, ankle-length nightgown.

Jaskier's hair had been cut short, his beard shaved away, most likely by Lambert. Jaskier's neck was bandaged. Jaskier's lower lip was split and swollen.

Jaskier's big blue eyes were wide open, and they stared at him, as if he wasn't real. As if he was too good to be true.

He understood: he was also staring at Jaskier as if Jaskier wasn't real, as if his beautiful, breathing soulmate was too good to be true.

Jaskier couldn't speak with his voice, not for a while. But Jaskier could speak with his body.

Jaskier wanted to see him.

Jaskier—loved him.

_You calling out for him again?_

_You think he'll hear you this time, bard?_

Geralt stepped into the room without taking his eyes off Jaskier. He shut the door behind him. He took a less than steady step towards Jaskier, then another.

_Go on, keep calling for him to save you._

His wide eyes were more red than amber, and they burned anew at the pure elation, the enduring love that lit up Jaskier's eyes. At the sincere _gratitude_ to him.

_But he'll never come. It's a blessing that he'll never see you again. Isn't that right?_

Jaskier still loved him.

Even after all these months apart, after being shoved away like dross, Jaskier still loved him. Jaskier never stopped believing in him. Never stopped believing that he was a good person, that he would eventually find him and save him.

_The White Wolf will never come for you._

But the goat-faced bastard had been wrong. He _had_ come for Jaskier. He'd come for Jaskier and found him and murdered dozens of men to save him—and he would do it all over again, even knowing it wasn't enough to make amends for the way he'd treated Jaskier for twenty years.

He knew nothing he could do or say was enough to make amends for that. He was still devoid of words, and all he had was his old, scarred body, and his blood-stained soul.

All he had was his remorse.

All he had, even more than his remorse, was love he'd been too scared to admit.

But not anymore.

He stared into Jaskier's wide, glistening eyes as he stood in front of his seated soulmate. As he slowly went down on one knee, then the other, kneeling in penitence, in acceptance at last of where he'd always belonged, where he'd always been destined to be.

He did his best to quirk up his lips in a tender smile. He really did, but Jaskier's wounded lips tremored, and then Jaskier's bruised, beautiful face crumpled.

And then, Jaskier's thin, strong arms were embracing him, drawing him tight to that soft, safe place to rest his head. Drawing him tight to that lean body that was as hot as the sun, and warmed him again to the very marrow of his bones.

He was still a savage beast inside, and he was still blood-stained and perhaps too damaged to ever be fixed—but he was now in the refuge of his soulmate's arms. He was now holding his soulmate in the refuge of his arms too. His soulmate who would bathe him, and cleanse him one day at a time. His soulmate, running those slender fingers through his damp hair, saying without words what he could finally hear, and saving him, and freeing him.

It would take Jaskier weeks stretching into months to fully recover from his injuries. The worst trauma was to his neck and the vocal cords within it, but he also had numerous bruises all over his emaciated body, and lacerations around his wrists and ankles from the manacles.

Koziol and his gang had tied him up with ropes at first. Then they'd stripped him of all his clothes except his breeches and chained him, regularly beating him—for he'd grabbed a knife and stabbed one of the robbers in the neck.

The bloody fucker had attempted to violate him.

The bloody fucker had died choking to death on his own blood, never touching Jaskier—and if he wasn't already dead, Geralt would have hunted him down to the ends of the world and _hurt him_.

Geralt was so proud of Jaskier. Of his soulmate's fervent spirit and undying strength.

Geralt knew all this via Jaskier's new notebook in which Jaskier would write such cursive, elegant words in black ink, then share with him to communicate with him.

He was so proud of Jaskier. So humbled by his soulmate's staunch faith that he really would find him and save him.

He didn't deserve Jaskier, much less Jaskier as his soulmate.

But the red, tiny words between his shoulder blades seared his warm skin, his awakened soul that Jaskier's mere presence purified with each passing day. Words that Jaskier had never seen, despite often bathing him.

 _I have enhanced vision, Geralt_ , Lambert had said weeks ago at the entrance of the inn, before parting ways with him and Jaskier. _I had to squint to be able to read the words._

Jaskier had been sleeping upstairs in their room, and so he'd growled without a thought at Lambert.

_Did you tell him?_

Lambert—blast him and his smirk—had anticipated that question long before he'd even thought it.

_No. And you don't intend to tell him, either, do you?_

He'd averted his scowling face.

_Let me guess, you won't tell him because you think he deserves better._

He'd clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Swallowed hard. Stared past the open entrance at nothing, while Lambert continued to cleave his armor word by word.

_He's your soulmate. But who is his soulmate, hm?_

He'd watched Lambert walk away. He'd stood there for ages. He'd mended his armor piece by piece with each sweet smile Jaskier bestowed upon him since. With every tender, wide-eyed stare Jaskier aimed at him without reservation, as if he was a dream Jaskier wanted to last for eternity.

He didn't deserve Jaskier, much less as his soulmate.

He certainly didn't deserve to read the cursive, elegant words inscribed on the underside of Jaskier's upper arm.

He studiously avoided looking at them while washing Jaskier's thin arms with a cloth, while Jaskier sat in the wooden tub full of hot water and quietly stared at him. He didn't want to know what the words said. Didn't want to know for sure that the words didn't belong to him.

They were so graceful in their curls and sweeps of black, so neat and refined. There were so many of them that they formed a paragraph on Jaskier's pale, smooth skin.

They couldn't be his words—not while he was a man of action, not words. Not when he was meant to die by the sword, or in the maw of a monster.

He didn't want to know.

He never wanted to know, if it meant Jaskier stayed by his side for all his life.

Jaskier still couldn't speak.

Jaskier was touching his bristly cheek with those gentle fingers. Caressing his face from temple to chin.

"Sorry," Geralt rasped.

He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. Perhaps it was for the furrow of concern between Jaskier's eyebrows, or the pain in those big blue eyes. Perhaps it was for all the years he'd taken Jaskier's loyalty and love for granted. For all the time he'd wasted wanting to sleep when he should have realized that it would come for him sooner or later, that being asleep was no different from being dead if he never woke up.

The sea was sublime at this time of the year.

The bracing, blue waves would have cleansed his bare feet with white froth, and it would have cleansed Jaskier's feet too—if he'd only said yes that day.

_Yes, let's get away for a while._

_Let's go into the sea and learn to fly._

The water in the tub was becoming cold.

Jaskier was still cupping his bristly cheek with such a warm, kind hand. Gazing at him with those large eyes that contained the oceans beyond the Continent, and everything beautiful in them.

Jaskier's healed, plump lips began to part.

Geralt's hand shot up towards Jaskier's face. He pressed the callused pads of his fingers on Jaskier's lips, and reined in his shiver of pleasure at the direct, intimate contact.

"Don't talk," he growled.

He felt Jaskier's lips jut out against his fingers in an irritated pout.

"Don't talk yet. The healer said you have to wait."

It was true.

It was also true Geralt was frightened beyond words at the thought of hearing Jaskier speak again. At the enormity of the red, tiny text on his back not belonging to Jaskier.

But for now, he could bury that fear.

For now, he could bask in the exaggerated roll of Jaskier's eyes in resignation. He could let his lips tremor with mirth at Jaskier pressing on them in playful retaliation. He could memorize Jaskier's grin blooming across a flushed, filled-out face upon seeing his small smile.

Jaskier was always doing his best to make him smile, or laugh.

Jaskier was determined.

Jaskier was so determined, so steadfast, and Geralt loved him for it—and so it was both a shock and yet not when Jaskier finally spoke to him again.

He'd heard Jaskier's heartbeat first. Heard its steady, hammering rhythm long before he heard its possessor's footsteps approaching him from behind in the inn room they shared in another town, on another day.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, barely above a hoarse whisper.

Still, Geralt jolted on his feet. His breath hitched. The whole world seemed to tilt to the left for a moment, a minute, an eon. He slowly lowered his leather satchel to the floor at the foot of the bed. He sucked in a breath, then turned around to face Jaskier.

Jaskier appeared like he had before they'd separated on the mountain. Thanks to the money and gold Geralt and Lambert had gladly taken from the dead robbers' coffers in the aftermath of their ambush, Jaskier had gorged on rich food and purchased new clothing after regaining his weight.

Geralt was stunned by the brilliant red of Jaskier's outfit. He was settled by the vivid teal of Jaskier's shirt. By those crinkled, blue eyes that gazed at him with the same warmth they'd had that day on the mountain.

"I—I wanted to surprise you."

He didn't know how much he'd missed listening to that low, mellifluous voice until now. He didn't know how little those red, tiny words on his back actually meant until now, as he gazed into Jaskier's eyes and closed the distance between them with shaky steps.

He hadn't known those words had even _existed_ until Lambert had pointed them out.

So why did they matter?

Why did they matter at all—when he'd already chosen Jaskier so long ago? When Jaskier had followed him out of that tavern in Posada, and refused to abandon him, and walked at his side across the Continent thereafter? When he'd pushed Jaskier away, and Jaskier still _loved him?_

Jaskier _was_ his soulmate, no matter the words inscribed on his back, or who they belonged to in this life.

Jaskier was his—and he was Jaskier's.

That was the only truth he needed to believe in.

He gently grasped Jaskier's upper arms. He swallowed hard, then rasped, "Talk."

_Talk to me._

_Tell me everything you want to say._

_Tell me everything, my love._

He felt Jaskier's hands grasping his elbows in return. He let Jaskier's wide, bright eyes roam the undefended plains of his face, let Jaskier see him under the cascading rays of the afternoon sun.

He let Jaskier guide them to sit on the foot of the bed, he to Jaskier's left. Like they'd sat on those boulders on the mountain.

But unlike that day, they sat turned towards each other. They gazed at each other, and they were alone together, and they were older, wiser men.

"I hear the sea is sublime this time of the year," Jaskier said. "When you take off your boots, and step onto the blinding sand, you walk with tottering steps, with a smile that grows and grows. Like a child, where everything is new and beautiful, and all of it lasts forever."

Geralt sat on clean sheets, but he could feel fine grains of sand between his toes. He could hear the waves of the sea beckoning.

"And when the sun hovers at a certain spot in the cloudless sky, the sea celebrates, and offers up its fleeting diamonds, as far as the eye can see."

He could feel cool, white froth washing over his feet, cleansing them.

He could feel Jaskier's hand in his—on the bed, on coarse rock.

"Look, why don't we leave tomorrow?" Jaskier's voice was turning huskier, softer. Jaskier's eyes were glistening like diamonds on blue waves. "That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion."

Geralt breathed. He stared into Jaskier's eyes. Slotted his fingers between his soulmate's, and memorized how well they fitted together.

"We could head to the coast. Get away for a while."

They were sitting on the foot of the bed. They were sitting on those boulders on the mountain. They were in both places at once—for every now and then, between remote millenniums, destiny was merciful enough to give a second chance to those who believed they would never have it.

Geralt tightened his fingers around Jaskier's. He swallowed past a jagged lump in his throat, but his lips curled up and his eyes crinkled, and in this moment he was in awe of how brave Jaskier was. How brave Jaskier had always been, more than he could ever be in centuries.

Perhaps, in this very moment, in this momentous turning point with his beloved soulmate, he could be just as brave.

"Have a go at collecting those diamonds?"

His voice was as husky and soft as Jaskier's. His smile grew, and grew, when Jaskier chuckled, like a happy young soul.

"Life is too short, isn't it? We should do what pleases us, while we still can." There were so many diamonds in the seas of Jaskier's eyes. So much hope. "I think I'll have a go at collecting another twenty years of memories with you, instead. If that's all right with you."

Geralt could hear the waves of the sea beckoning them. He could feel Jaskier's fingers stroking his on the bed. He could hear Jaskier's steady, familiar heartbeat and feel it anchoring him.

"It's a good start," he rasped, still smiling, still brave. "But let's make it sixty."

He could be braver. He really could be.

Everything was new and beautiful now, as if all of it would last forever.

He leaned forward and angled his head, and he drew closer and closer to Jaskier's face, to those dark pink, quivering lips that whispered his name like a prayer. When Jaskier surged across the warm space between them and crushed their lips together, Geralt heard the sun and the sea churning in radiant celebration. He heard Jaskier's heartbeat thunder in that hairy, lean chest, and he heard his own thunder in tandem with his soulmate's.

He felt Jaskier's fingers run through his hair. He felt every overjoyed press and thrilled slide of his lips on Jaskier's, and each one said what Jaskier had always been saying to him without words from the day they'd met.

_I long and lust for you._

_I love you._

_I always will._

And when they had no choice but to break for a gasp of air, their noses rubbing, their breaths mingling, Jaskier laughed—and so did he, with renewed jubilation, with rare faith.

It was an exquisite sound. It was the sound of their future for decades to come.

Two years after they were reunited, Geralt married Jaskier in the decorated courtyard of Kaer Morhen. It was a small and tranquil wedding, for only the most trusted and closest to them were invited—and even then, some did not attend.

Geralt had no hard feelings about that. Neither did Jaskier: the ceremony was mere dressing on their unbreakable bond. They'd already been as good as married when Geralt had knelt before Jaskier in that inn room, and pledged all that he was to his soulmate. They'd already been as good as forever with their first kiss.

In the decades after, they were inseparable. They made love day and night throughout their honeymoon at the coast, and they still did long after the honeymoon was over and the coast shifted its shape and the sea strew its diamonds farther and farther out to the eternal horizon.

Geralt never told Jaskier about the four red, tiny words between his shoulder blades. Jaskier never showed him the cursive, elegant words on the underside of his upper arm, not after he'd averted his eyes from them the first time they'd made love.

Jaskier hadn't been offended. Jaskier had gazed at him with those warm, empathetic eyes the color of the sea at its most incandescent. Jaskier had caressed his bristly cheek. Reached for a black cloth and tied it around his arm, obscuring those words.

Every time, Geralt would kiss the cloth above those words.

And every time, Jaskier would murmur, "Don't you know, my love?"

He knew how much Jaskier loved him. He knew that more than anything now. But Jaskier had said to him those four words on his back and still lived, still stayed with him. He still didn't know what that meant.

He still didn't want to know what the words on Jaskier's arm said, or whether they belonged to someone else.

He didn't need to know them to know how much he loved Jaskier, and that he would do so for the rest of his prolonged life.

A witcher was much stronger than a human.

A witcher could live for much longer than a human.

But a witcher could also hurt, and bleed, and bleed, until he was dead.

"No! NO! Geralt!"

The first time he found himself outside of his body occurred five years after he married Jaskier, during a royal wyvern hunt gone very bad. He found himself kneeling next to his mutilated body sprawled on the ground. He was so shocked that he was speechless and frozen in place. He stared down in utter confusion at his own blood-spattered face. Stared and stared—until he realized he was hearing Jaskier scream.

"You can't die, you bastard!"

Jaskier was half-sprawled on top of him, pounding his chest with a white-knuckled fist. Rivulets streamed down Jaskier's face crumpled with rage.

"You can't die, Geralt! GERALT!"

Geralt stared at his soulmate, and shook, and shook.

_I'm not dead, Jaskier. I'm here._

Eskel emerged into view as if out of a dense fog, trying to approach Jaskier and pull him away. Jaskier snarled at him like a rabid wolf, and it'd been such a strange moment for Geralt to fall in love with his soulmate again. But he did.

"NO! It's not his time yet! Geralt's not dying! NOT TODAY!"

Jaskier pounded on his chest again, and again. He glanced down at his own hands. At how they glowed golden with the rest of him, as if there was a light within him. He glanced at his own body. At the empty husk it was. Then he felt a hard tug in his chest, like a string yanking him forward.

He fell forward.

Fell back into his empty husk of a body.

And with a harsh gasp, he lunged upright and sat on the ground, wheezing, wide-eyed.

Eskel jumped back and yelled, "Holy fuck!"

Jaskier screamed with fright, then gasped, and then, still crying, flung those strong arms around his shaking shoulders and hugged him tight and anchored him.

He hadn't understood then what was happening.

He’d died and yet—he hadn't.

He'd somehow left his body—and stayed.

He would experience it four more times throughout the decades: twice during monster hunts, once during a stupid fight in a tavern, and once during an even more stupid incident of climbing a tall tree to retrieve a kitten for Ciri, who at that point was their adopted daughter.

That incident was, however, the most memorable—for it was then, while outside of his body, that he'd clearly seen the glowing, gold string that tied him to Jaskier. It seemed to radiate out of his chest like a sunbeam. It weaved to Jaskier's chest, and nothing stood in its way.

It was their unbreakable bond as soulmates. It was a bond so rare that even the libraries of Aretuza has scarce information on it.

It was bond so unbreakable, so powerful, that it was said to be capable of outlasting time itself.

It was said to be stronger than death itself.

A lifetime ago, he'd asked Jaskier for sixty more years of his short human life, and his abiding divine love.

He and Jaskier hadn't made it to sixty years.

They made it to seventy.

Seventy exquisite years of being together, married for sixty-eight of it. Passed far too swiftly.

"We had a good run, didn't we, darling."

Jaskier was so light in his arms. Jaskier's medium-length hair was fine and as white as his. Jaskier's face was creased from over a century of existence, from some lines of sorrow, but so many more lines of laughter and smiles and bliss. Jaskier's voice was just as mellifluous as it was ninety years ago when they'd met in Posada.

"Hmmn."

It was all Geralt could say with his constricted throat.

"Remember when we met for the first time?"

Everyone else had said their last words to Jaskier. With smiles and no tears. Just the way Jaskier wished it to be. The way it should be, for a time of celebration of the beginning of something new and wonderful.

"You, sitting in that corner," Jaskier murmured, "brooding."

He caressed Jaskier's smooth cheek with a thumb. His own hands were gnarled now.

"Wasn't brooding," he rasped.

"Of course not. Awed by my superb singing, more like."

No one ever truly died.

Certainly not soulmates like them, with a bond like theirs.

But that didn't mean Geralt couldn't grieve for the inevitable end of an era. Of something known and cherished.

"Our stories go on," Jaskier whispered. "I'll still get them from you."

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier's eyes were still as blue as the sea at its most incandescent. All its diamonds floated in the oceans of Jaskier's eyes now.

Jaskier raised a trembling hand to his bearded cheek.

And he knew, then, exactly what Jaskier was going to say, what Jaskier had been destined from the beginning of time to say to him in this moment.

"See you around, Geralt."

There were so many diamonds in Jaskier's eyes. He and Jaskier had collected them all. They'd won it all.

He wasn't a man of words, even after seventy years of being a bard's husband. But he'd spent all those years collecting the only ones he knew. The ones that felt right, felt true.

"You will," he rasped. "And when my time comes, you'll be there waiting for me." His chest tremored. But his voice didn't. "And you'll take my hand—and we'll go to the coast, like we always do."

Jaskier stared up at him with those big blue eyes whose warmth had never waned. They crinkled, and so did Jaskier's dark pink lips that curled up in a smile of love. Of triumph.

Jaskier lowered a frail, slender hand to his chest that rose and fell slower and slower.

Jaskier nodded, still smiling.

His big, blue eyes slowly fluttered shut.

The window was open. A verdant tree stood outside, and upon one of its branches, a lark warbled a melodious tune. It was all Geralt heard now. He didn't hear Jaskier's breaths anymore, nor Jaskier's steady, anchoring heartbeat he'd memorized and listened to for a human lifetime. He didn't cry.

He sucked in a breath that didn't quiver. He gently pulled up the sleeve of Jaskier's nightgown. Up until Jaskier's upper arm was bared. Until those cursive, elegant words were finally revealed to his stinging amber eyes for the first time.

He traced their black curls and sweeps with his fingertips, and he smiled true—for the words he read were the very words he'd declared.

_Don't you know, my love?_

He knew. He knew it now, more than anything else in the world.

Jaskier was his soulmate—and he was Jaskier's soulmate.

It was the only truth Jaskier had ever needed to believe in. The only truth _he_ needed to believe in now, until his own time came.

He pressed a tender kiss to a cooling forehead.

He didn't cry, for the body in his embrace was an empty husk now.

He felt that familiar, hard tug in his chest. He gazed down, and he saw that familiar, radiant burst of gold emanating from within it.

His wobbly smile widened.

His eyes followed the glowing, golden string weaving from it. It meandered down his leaner body, across thin thighs under a blanket. It swerved left, then swooped up to weave along the expanse of a bejeweled, golden doublet—until it reached an identical, radiant burst of gold.

Geralt slowly raised his stinging, crinkled eyes, up that bejeweled, golden doublet with its stitched dandelions and angular patterns. Up that long, pale neck that he'd nuzzled so many times. Up past dark pink, plump lips he'd kissed even more times, in the day and the night. Up along that short, perfect nose that had wrinkled with amusement and reddened with a blush. Up, up, up—until his amber eyes met such big, blue, beautiful ones that still harbored all the diamonds of the seas.

That still gazed at him with such incredible warmth and elation.

He was completely unsurprised that Jaskier's soul had chosen to manifest itself as his young, vibrant self, attired in that resplendent wedding outfit. Jaskier had been dazzling in it. Jaskier had shone brighter than the sunshine that had spilled over him from the heavens above.

And when they'd kissed before their loved ones as husbands—he'd shone brighter than the sun too.

Their bond as soulmates was unbreakable. It was a bond so rare, so powerful, it was said to be capable of outlasting time itself.

It was stronger than death itself.

It truly was.

Jaskier was gazing at his own body with curious, innocent eyes. Jaskier sat on the side of the bed next to his own body. He was translucent and glowed like the sun from within, and he'd never appeared more gorgeous to Geralt than in this very precious moment in time and space.

No one ever truly died.

Certainly not soulmates like them, with a bond like theirs that could transcend time and death, that throbbed in tandem with their shared heartbeats.

Geralt's smile grew, and grew, and so did Jaskier's.

He could hear the waves of the sea beckoning them. He could hear Jaskier's steady, anchoring heartbeat within his, where he would never lose it again.

Jaskier stretched out a pale, slender hand towards him, palm down. He stretched out a hand as well, and while it was gnarled and thinner than it used to be, it didn't shake at all.

They crossed the celestial distance between them.

In the diamond-bright, sun-hot space between the perpetual planets and frothing, infinite waves, their fingertips touched.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: Over the decades, the soulmate bond between Geralt and Jaskier grows so powerful that it binds them to each other--even when one of them dies. They live and love each other for 70 years after being reunited, and at the age of almost 110, Jaskier peacefully passes away in Geralt's arms--but only in the sense that his eternal soul finally leaves his old, mortal body. Their soulmate bond ensures that Jaskier's soul will always be at Geralt's side, until it's his time to go too, and join Jaskier in the everlasting life beyond death.  
> ________________________
> 
> Afterword:
> 
> When I first saw the AU prompt on Twitter, I knew it was pretty much a set-up for tragedy. How did someone know their soulmate's words on their body would be the last ones? Either your soulmate left you and you never saw them again, or they _left_ you. But ... I refused to leave Geralt and Jaskier with a tragic, hopeless end. I wanted to wrest from this AU for them their Happily Ever After while accepting the inevitability and reality of death--and "Like We Always Do" was my attempt at that. I hope I succeeded, in some way or another. 
> 
> In my initial plotting, the story had an additional scene to conclude it. A short scene, where Geralt had just "died", and manifested as his young self in his wedding outfit. Unlike what occurred to Jaskier, I imagined Geralt in a forest instead, on a path to the sea.
> 
> He would saunter down this path. He'd hear Jaskier singing, and follow his soulmate's mellifluous voice. He would find Jaskier sitting on a boulder, strumming his lute, singing about his gorgeous garroter--patiently waiting for him. They would see each other and smile in elation.
> 
> And just like Geralt had said, Jaskier would take his hand, and they would walk side by side down their destined path--and go to the coast, to their little slice of eternal heaven, where they will never die nor ever suffer, together for eternity. 
> 
> And now you know that the title is of the last four words Jaskier's soulmate said to him. 🌊💎🌅


End file.
